


Scientia Somnis

by Silveraria



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (somewhere in that time frame), M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, WIP - feedback appreciated, post-Blind Banker, very eventual Johnlock probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silveraria/pseuds/Silveraria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock first person, stream-of-consciousness style one-shot (as it stands)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _“When one realises one is asleep, at that moment one is already half-awake." - P.D. Ouspensky_

Wake. Blurry. Voices...   
  


Electronic, static, without ambience. (Television: John’s home.)  


It’s late.   


Sofa... leather, smooth. Air, a breeze: window open? John never opens window (hay-fever).   
  
  
Mrs Hudson’s been. Better not have moved acids on coffee table...  


Open eyes to check. Beakers still there. Must think they’re water.  


Should probably warn them... diluted hydrochloric, sulphuric, roughly the same, nitric theoretically less reactive (higher pKa)... strong acids predictable. Boring. Organic acids of far more interest: oleic (cis-octadec-9-enoic, found in fats and oils), palmitic (hexadecanoic, palm oil but also dairy products), humic (soil, coal), malic (sour), piperic...   
  
  
Ugh, I’m yawning: betrayed by transport, as ever. John knows I’m awake now. Cue...  


“Morning, sleeping beauty.”  


Does he ever tire of such clichés? I’ll ignore the poor and frankly irritating use of sarcasm. Clearly not morning (absence of direct sunlight through east-facing windows), but...  
 

“John. What time is it?”  


Phone still in pocket. Too far, limbs not awake yet. Watch inconveniently on Thames riverbed after case before last.   


Roll on to back. Right arm suffering paresthesia. Ow. Tedious.  


“Nearly... half past six, by my reckoning.”  


By his reckoning? Come on, John. Time as given by an accurate watch is not subjective. 

That said, not sure he remembers what an accurate watch is, judging by that abominably cheap contraption he insists on wearing since his Tag Heuer broke (must buy him another one, bulletproof this time, sneak it into his room when he’s out)...  


“When did you get back?”  
  
  
Vocal tone inaccurate. Currently failing to mirror my expressive intentions.    
  
  
Hate sleep.  


“Couple of hours ago.” Armchair squeaks. John gets up. Tilt head, follow him as he crosses the room.  
  
  
“Sarah let me leave early.” Sarah: oh, the one who narrowly avoided cranial impalement? Likely. Always hard to tell them apart.   


“Want some tea?”  


It's always tea. An anomaly of biochemistry, caffeinated yet wholly soporific... Nevertheless, a necessary indulgence. I’m used to stronger.   
  
  
“Mmm. Please.” Stretch. “Milk, one—  


“I know, I know, Sherlock—“  
  
  
Can hear the smile.  
  
  
“—I may not have that big brain of yours but I’m perfectly capable of remembering how people take their cuppas."  
 

“You live with me, of course you know mine.”    


Voice still slightly garbled. Running water, flick of kettle switch. See John choose two mugs from cupboard.  


“No need to remind me then, is there?” 

  
He’s right. I repeat: hate sleep. Unnecessary bodily sabotage. Hope effects dissipate immanently...  
  
  
(Would know precisely how long it takes for body to resume fully functional state after dormancy, but do so little of it there’s not enough data... Must not voice such thoughts to John.)  
  
  
“Here.”   
  
  
Mug clunks on table. Mind the beakers...   
  
  
“Why? Anything important?” Sigh. Spoke out loud, evidently. “Before you say anything, budge up a bit.” Swing feet over side, sit up. John sits on sofa.

   
“Yes. Actually when you put your mug down” – as you inevitably will do once the nerves in your hand remind you once more that ceramics are fantastic thermal conductors – “put it a little further away...”   


Slide mine to edge of table to demonstrate. Leaves trail of moisture (recently washed. One of those hideously floral ones: possibly used for growing cultures in yesterday. Mrs Hudson definitely been, John doesn’t like me using kitchen things for experiments).  


John has paused. Contemplating what I just said. Television still pointlessly filling room with static.  


“Right. Why, may I ask?”

   
“Don’t be dull, John. Your scientific knowledge extends far beyond what is commonly taught to teenagers.” Pre-teen in my case. Took those ridiculous A-level things when I was twelve, beat Mycroft by a year.   


“The beakers contain buffers.” Look at him expectantly.  


“Oh. Temperature affects them, yeah.” Good. Must-have knowledge for a competent doctor, considering they are imperative for the survival of complex biological life forms. And as any half-bearable acquaintance.   
  
“Yes, obviously. So, putting a mug of tea – which we have already established as an infrared conductor and therefore emitter – too close could alter the results of the experiment irrevocably.”  


John looks at me blankly. Decides he doesn’t care. 

  
“Okay, okay. Fine.”   
  
  
Takes a sip of tea. “What’s the experiment?”  


“I’m testing the buffering qualities of saliva when reacted with a selection of acids and bases. Beginning with the acids.” 

   
John splutters slightly, mist of tea lands on table and in beakers. Hmm.   


“There’s acids in... I nearly spilt one of those this morning! Why the _hell_ are they on the coffee table?”  
  
  
Rise to feet: head feels light. Wave hand.   


“Don’t be dramatic, they’re well diluted. Saliva can’t withstand strong solutions.” 

  
Learnt that last week: complete waste of quality chemicals. (Won’t mention acid burn under rug. Had to shift it a bit, he hasn't noticed.)  


John visibly considers asking the obvious, mug hovering at a perilous angle.  
  
  
“Myself, before you ask. Seemed the most logical plan, easily renewable...”  


Raises his eyebrows: imagining me spitting repeatedly into beakers, I assume. (Accurate.)   


John takes mouthful of tea, swallows deeply. Adam’s apple ripples under two-day old stubble. Glance at his eyes: tired. Shadows underneath. Lips: tight. Posture tense underneath baggy jumper.  
  
  
 Ah.   


“When did she tell you?” He looks up at me, only mildly startled at my deduction. Used to this now. Any trace of earlier smile gone.  


“Yesterday afternoon, thanks for asking.” Sarcasm. Takes another deep draught. 

   
“By text.”  
  
  
He grimaces. John’s voice is tired: didn’t sleep well. Would’ve noticed this morning but was too busy preparing molar quantities for acid solutions. Absolute precision required.  
 

“I’m sorry.”  


Now what do I say? More pointless platitudes?  
  
  
“Though you should know you weren’t the only—“  
  
  
“Yeah, not right now, Sherlock.”  
  
  
“I didn’t finish. She – at least, the woman I’ve seen on our doorstep too frequently over the last month, who I presume is the current focus of your emotional turmoil – terminated a relationship with another person within an hour of sending the text to you.”  
  
  
John’s getting that look again. Vasodilation occurring in neck and cheeks.  
  
  
“I’m merely explaining that there are others in exactly the same situation as yourself. Isn’t that supposed to be comforting?”  
  
  
“Sher—No, just. No.” He stands up and begins to herd me towards the door.   
  
  
“We’re running low on milk.”  
  
  
“My jacket is creased—"  
  
  
“Not my problem. Out.” Shoved beyond threshold by warm, strong hands.   
  
  
The door to the flat shuts firmly behind me.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Heat. (31 °C, Humidity approximately 65%.) Walking. Too hot in dark (infrared-absorbing) suit: hair beginning to adhere to forehead. London breezes (caused by a funnelling effect down the streets, like a wind tunnel) not helping, not enough skin uncovered for it to cool. Pavement burning under feet. Need to keep moving quickly, light, fast...

Shut door. Shade. Cool wood. Rough texture of uneven oak floor boards. Bliss.

Carry on up the polished wood stairs, avoid the squeaky one on the left. Got John’s milk, plastic bag swings with movement. Open door.

John sat at laptop. Concentrated expression suggests he’s writing on that blog thing, adding the most recent case no doubt. (Emails to girlfriend/potential girlfriend make his eyes glaze over.) Typing pattern confirms deduction.

Hears me come in. Looks at my face. Notes the milk. Looks at my feet. “Sherlock,” – voice equally disapproving, exasperated and amused – “don’t tell me you forgot to put on your shoes.”

“Your displeasure and desire to see me out of the building was quite evident.”

John gives a little huff. “Yes. Well.” He turns his head to the left, looks out the window. Sunlight makes his hair glow the exact hue of 14 karat gold. “At least it’s not raining —though, you’d probably have gone anyway, even if it was.” A reasonable evaluation. “What happened to those leather ones downstairs?

“Still damp.” And pungent, Thames water has a particularly distinctive odour despite the constant redirection (in majority) of the modern sewer system. Move into kitchen, stick milk in fridge (above spleen).

“Might be worth putting them out in the sun or something...” John murmurs half to himself, resumes tapping.

Pour distilled water into (relatively) clean beaker. Pick up pH meter from work surface (borrowed from the morgue: useful object, by far the best application of osmosis outside the human body). Go to experiment hall in mind palace. Find suitable wall space.

Sit next to coffee table. Start taking pH readings. Correct about fully dissociating acids, but the weaker ones – oh! yes, fine, make note...

*

Dark: orange lights tinge curtains. Realise the flat is quiet. John’s stopped torturing his keyboard... tapping. Look over. (Neck twinges.) 

John asleep, head on desk. Mouth slightly open but doesn’t snore (of course, not old, not flat on back, good respiratory health, more-than-adequate muscle tone...) Breathes out: papers flutter. Expression peaceful. Never truly observed John asleep before, interesting...

Abandon saliva experiment (temporarily). Perch on John’s chair, better view. Steeple fingers. Watch.

One arm in between head and laptop: fist loosely closed. Other arm resting on upper leg. Facing into the flat (towards me). Study creases around eyes (those ones people call laugh lines to make aging bearable). Soft in sleep, wandering patterns without any logical blueprint. Lack of structure surprisingly engaging. Possibly some truth in the concept of 'laugh lines', though in John's case more likely formed by squinting into the desert sun. A biological record of emotional experience.

...Return attentions to factual observation. (Abstract speculation a fatuous waste of time.) Legs crossed at the ankles, shoulders tense: sternocleidomastoid and trapezius muscles taut. Will hurt upon waking if position held for longer than the duration of a short nap...

Empathy, an entirely fantastical emotional phenomenon and one not worth my time. John will be fine. Experiment needs finishing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's so short, Sherlock just doesn't use many words when he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever time at fic-writing so any feedback at all would be very much appreciated. I'm not quite sure where this is going plot-wise (except it'll most likely end up Johnlock of some description) but I wanted to see what would happen if I tried to write Sherlock from this perspective... note to self, it's rather tiring. Takes a lot of chemistry research. But anyway, let me know what you think...


End file.
